


soft clay on your feet and under mine

by aflashofgreen



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflashofgreen/pseuds/aflashofgreen
Summary: When she doesn’t seem ready to speak further, he does. It’s what he came here to do after all. He knows he will not sleep if they do not clear the air and Jon did not wish to part from her thinking they were cross.Missing scene from 7x02





	soft clay on your feet and under mine

**Author's Note:**

> Envisioned as pre-relationship but can be read as platonic.
> 
> Title from If I Had a Boat by James Vincent McMorrow.

They have yet to speak, but tonight Jon feels particularly self-conscious, acutely aware of the space between them and how it will grow on the morrow.  
  
Even as they had reached an understanding of sorts following his announcement earlier today to sail for Dragonstone with Ser Davos, he had expected Sansa to seek him out afterwards. To demand a further explanation or see his decision through – likely both.   
  
It seemed whenever a decision was to be made or applied, she was there and so her absence had been noticeable against the memory of her voice in such moments. Her voice and her presence, steady and unfailing whether in agreement or in protest, offering advice or asking a question.  
  
Sansa had wished to be involved from the start and so she had been.  
  
But after that public gathering with the Lords, she had made it a point to disappear and Jon had not seen her again until supper and still she gave no indication of wishing to talk.  
  
In the end, he’d been the one asking to speak with her and here they were in her rooms now.  
  
"I expected you would want to join us for today’s council," Jon started.  
  
No reply, though her eyes were firmly on him at last.  
  
He continued.  
  
"Lasted thrice longer than usual." And attempting a small joke, "I spent half the time looking out for your arrival and the other half wondering where you were. I’m afraid I will have to ask Ser Davos to recount our meeting on our way to Dragonstone."  
  
He had expected a smile to match his own or perhaps even a laugh at that, but Sansa’s features remained seemingly as guarded as they had been when they had first stepped into the room. Clearing his throat, he persevered.  
  
"When dinner came, I thought surely you would breach the subject, yet it’s Brienne you were speaking with." Silence still. He was beginning to falter now.  
  
"Sansa– "  
  
"I was coming to discuss your departure, Jon. You’ve simply beaten me to it before I could make my way to your chambers. Does that set your mind at ease?"  
  
It did. Still, he couldn't help the feeling that her tardiness in confronting him meant something bigger. As if sensing his doubts, Sansa replied.  
  
"I needed to gather my thoughts first." And staring him down hard, she added in an exasperated tone, "Will you sit down, please."  
  
When they had finished eating mere moments ago and come to her rooms, Sansa had sat on a chair by the fire while a servant lit the candles, and Jon feeling too restless to take a seat beside her had started pacing. Alone at last, he had stopped if only to maintain an appearance of confidence. Clearly, she wasn’t fooled.  
  
 _Better simply get on with it, Snow._  
  
"I’ve left instructions for Tormund in Eastwatch and Edd at Castle Black that for every raven addressed to me, another one should be sent to you here. There’s been no sighting of the White Walkers since Hardhome and I don’t plan on lingering South, but should anything change, news will reach you first so the castle can start preparing while I make my way back." Jon says it in one breath as he sits on the chair next to hers.  
  
"That’s good." Her voice is even as she says so. "Whatever threat the dead pose to us, winter will spare us no kindness. I’ll get the castle ready," she finishes, clasping her hands together and unclasping them before setting them down on the arms of her seat.  
  
When she doesn’t seem ready to speak further, he does. It’s what he came here to do after all. He knows he will not sleep if they do not clear the air and Jon did not wish to part from her thinking they were cross.  
  
"I’m sorry I caught you by surprise today." He should have told her he was leaving before telling the rest of them, he knows. But after Sam’s letter… Dragonstone seemed at least like the beginning of a plan against the White Walkers. Jon tells her so.  
  
Sansa’s eyes are back on him and her voice is pleading when she replies. "You truly believe this to be a worthy mission. I can see that, but– "  
  
"We can mine the dragonglass and have it sent here to be forged into weapons," he interrupts her. "Sansa… the threat they pose to us," he says using her own words, "It’s no joke. I’ve seen them and I’ve been lucky enough to come back and tell the tale twice because I have a Valyrian steel sword, but I’m only one of a few."  
  
He needs her to understand how desperate their situation is. Sansa is no fighter and despite having Brienne and Podrick as her personal shields, he would not leave her weaponless. Besides the lady knight owned a Valyrian steel sword herself, he remembered, reforged from Ice, the Starks’ ancestral greatsword their Father had taken South. Fire only worked on wights. He would need Brienne by his side as he took on the White Walkers unless he could convince her to lend the sword to someone else, Tormund perhaps.  
  
All the more reason then. Sansa shall be armed with a dagger made of dragonglass if only to soothe his mind in however small ways that may be accomplished.  
  
"Do you think I don’t believe you?" she asks somberly.  
  
"I think I promised to protect you and protect the North." Leaning on his elbows, he turns his gaze towards the hearth and adds, "Our armies can’t fight the dead with fire alone either. Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons on the other hand… If I can convince her to help, we might actually defeat them."  
  
"I understand that, Jon," she says it deliberately, enunciating each word with something akin to desperation. "And I will keep the North for you. But I stand by my belief you would have been better off sending an emissary. This is…", she trails off, shaking her head slightly. "It’ll be several moons before you return and if the Lords of the North and the Vale can’t accept your decision now, time will only make them wearier."  
  
Looking back at her, he is surprised by the openness he can read on her face now. It’s a rarer occurence nowadays, for her to be so unguarded. He doesn’t need to imagine what has brought forth this new habit of hers, Sansa has told him of her time in King’s Landing.  
  
The Iron Throne.  
  
They would need to deal with the Lannisters too and soon, but that was an headache for another day.  
  
"Unless I come back with allies," he replies.  
  
"Maybe not even then." She looks almost as discouraged as he feels. "I know your intentions are only true, but can you blame them for thinking hers might not be?"  
  
Jon is reminded of her face that first day at Castle Black, a bowl of soup between her hands, a different question falling from her lips.  
  
 _Where will you go?_  
  
It had been easy to soothe the uncertainty in her voice then, the underlying fear. The sight of her that day, dirty faced and unkempt hair falling loose from her braid… His sister and yet she could not have looked more different from the Sansa of his childhood.  
  
He had given her food back then and offered her the warmth of a fire and the comfort of his fur cloak. And later… _I said I’d protect her, but when that horn blew and the Knights of the Vale arrived, she had been the one protecting me._  
  
Today it occurs to him that while Sansa might be worried in the name of a kingdom, she is scared for him too.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Will you promise me something as well?"  
  
For a brief instant, it seems that Sansa is staring him down, daring him to tell her no. She’s straightened her back and Jon thinks she intended it as a show of confidence, even as her face betrays the hesitation her body tries to make up for.  
  
"You talk of protecting the North and Winterfell, of protecting our people and the wildlings and your brothers of the Night’s Watch. If it comes to it, will you prioritize your safety, please? So you can come back home? Should this mission prove fruitless, adding your death on top of it would only further doom us. And…"  
  
Trailing off, she turns her eyes to the window. Snow has been falling outside, a daily occurence now that winter has come. He’d walked past children trying to build a snowman earlier, although the snow wasn’t quite solid enough yet for their attempts to be anything more than that.  
  
Should the White Walkers come, there will be no snow to build men out of or children left to play. Only ice and death.  
  
 _I want to see the children play._  
  
Sansa’s gaze is back on him when she finds her voice again.  
  
"Rickon lies in the crypts and we don’t know where Arya and Bran are or if they might still be alive. Whether we are meant to be each other’s last family– I don’t want to lose you just as I’ve come to know you."  
  
Jon suddenly remembers a time before their little sister was born when Sansa would run after him and Robb, begging them to play monster-and-maidens with her and laughing joyfully when they would indulge her. Back then she made no difference between her brothers and gave her affections freely.  
  
He had fewer sweet memories with her afterwards, but what should it matter now when it never had.  
  
 _I’ll protect you, I promise._  
  
There’s a small moment of hesitation, the familiar shadow of doubt that lingers.  
  
Her face is inched towards the floor when he finally gathers the courage to kneel next to her chair. Jon waits for her to meet his eyes before he speaks.  
  
"I’ll come back home, I promise."  
  
It’s not what she asked for, he knows, but it’s the best he can offer.  
  
Her gaze on him is steady, an evaluation of sorts before she comes to a conclusion. Whatever she’s looking for, Jon doesn’t want to fail her.  
  
Eventually, she lifts her hands from her lap to reach for one of his. They give a pressure and there’s the curve of a smile on her lips, her face bearing the look of acceptance.  
  
Nodding, he rises from his spot and wishes her goodnight.  
  
"Goodnight, Jon."  
  
As he closes the door behind him, Jon thinks this is the memory he will come back to during his absence, until he comes back to her.


End file.
